Gemini
by Lady Charity
Summary: Sirius had always pictured reuniting with James when his time came, always pictured taking his best friend's hand and embracing him until there was no more reason to cry. Never did he expect his brother. Never did he want it to be his brother.


He does not remember opening his eyes.

Surely there was some sort of transition, an end to the chapter and a turn of the page to start anew, but he could not remember it. He remembers the Department of Mysteries, the neon hexes dancing in the darkness, and then he remembers this whiteness that surrounds him now. But he remembers nothing of pitch black.

Flooded with white light, with nothingness that offered no secrets or mystery in the whiteness. Honest, stark white.

He closes his eyes again, as if hoping to nod off, as if he had just woken up abruptly in the middle of the night and is now succumbing to slumber once more. Blackness contrasted so much with the white he has just seen that the darkness blinds him—burns him.

It takes him a while to realize that he is not breathing.

He takes a breath and air slides into his lungs like liquid, but it does not relieve him—but there was nothing to alleviate in the first place. He manages to sit up and realizes that what he saw is not what really is. Was the whiteness just his imagination, or had this room—this scenery—this _world_—always been here the whole time?

It is nothing specific. A simple room with a heavy door and a very large window with no curtains that lets all the moonlight drench the polished floor. The bed he lies on is soft but has the polite coldness of a stranger, as if no one else has ever slept in it before. The walls are not white as he had originally thought but a rich dark wood with red drapery.

Another memory blooms in his mind.

His name is Sirius Black.

He never realized that he had forgotten it until now, so he clings to the name as if his whole being depends on it. He repeats it in his head until he forgets how it ever felt to not know his name.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. He recognizes this room, but only its shadow—the kind of recognition as if in a dream, where he is convinced he knows everything about it, even has memories of it from the past—only to wake up and realize that he has never seen anything like it in his life.

But an epiphany—no, a _memory_—returns to him. There is no waking up here, no realizing that nothing is real, because nothing _is_ real—and yet everything is true.

_Harry._

That voice that Sirius treasures so much (_his laugh was just like James's_) echoes in his head, but the invisible lips do not form words he can remember. His heart jolts when he pictures Harry's horror-stricken face—only fifteen years old and has already witnessed two deaths in the course of about a year—and guilt weakens him.

He cradles his head in his hands, drinking in Harry's memory as if that is all takes to will them into existence. He couldn't just leave Harry behind without even saying everything he wished to say to him (_to James_), the words he knew Harry needs to hear but has never been blessed with. He is (_was_) Harry's godfather and he left him behind.

When Sirius finally lifts his eyes from his hands, he realizes that the ashen-faced, dark haired figure he sees is not his reflection.

"Regulus," he says.

The name is heavy on his tongue, and his lips feel as if they are stretched out of shape just by forming the syllables. His voice is low and monotonous, neither angered nor saddened—but emotionless. His eyes quickly search the room for anyone else—surely he was not alone with his brother—but to no avail.

"Sirius," Regulus murmurs. His voice, to Sirius's surprise, is familiar, for in life he had forgotten it in those silent and empty fifteen years of death. Suddenly his throat grows numb and something within him stings.

"Where am I?" Sirius says sharply. "What are you doing here?" He had always pictured reuniting with James when his time came, always pictured taking his best friend's hand and embracing him until tears ran dry and there was no more reason to cry. Never did he expect his brother. Never did he want it to be his brother.

"I can't say," admits Regulus, with a shadow of a smile. "That's for you to figure out."

"Where's James?" Sirius says, pushing the riddle aside.

"He's here," Regulus assures him. "And he's waiting to see you. But he said I ought to talk to you first."

"_He_ said that?" Sirius sputters. Wasn't James the one that Sirius griped to when Regulus became a Death Eater? Didn't James know what Regulus had lived and foolishly thrown his life away for? And James of all people should know how much Sirius resented (_despised?_) his brother. "Why?"

Regulus gives a small shrug of the shoulder and a guilty smile. "He says it's the best for the both of us. He already understands," says Regulus. "And quite admittedly, we've got a lot of catching up to do."

Sirius does not reply. Instead, he immediately climbs onto his feet and strides to the wide window. Through the whispered moonlight, he can see a mismatched town that defies reality. He can see Godric's Hollow to the left of his vision—the Potter's home untouched and picturesque—and yet just a little ways off he can see the quaint village of Hogsmeade, smoke rising from the chimneys in spirals, and just beyond that: Hogwarts. His fantasies and sanctuaries all in one place.

"We're dead," Sirius says plainly, as if to convince himself this.

"Should I wait for it to sink in?" says Regulus.

"Dead," repeats Sirius.

The idea settles in, but not with cold sweat or a skip of a heartbeat. Like swallowing down cold medicine.

"So you can't be telling me," Sirius says bitterly, "that even in death I have to put up with Death Eaters."

Regulus closes his eyes and inhales softly. Somewhere deep inside Sirius feels he ought to feel guilty for saying such, but he knows not why, so he deems it as just his naïve conscience. He stares at his younger brother meanwhile dreading his fate if he is to be trapped in an immortality with the people who killed all that he loves. Is there no justice after all beyond death?

"I'm not a Death Eater, Sirius," Regulus says.

"Obviously not, considering that you're dead. Takes away the whole purpose of being a Death Eater, doesn't it?" says Sirius.

"Always pointing out the obvious, aren't you?" Regulus chuckles. Sirius wants to throttle him—or at least shake the kid by his thin shoulders because strangling will do nothing anymore—for being so casual about something that had torn the two brothers apart. Regulus must have seen this indignation ignite in Sirius's eyes because he sobers.

"Look—" Regulus rolls up his left sleeve and reveals his forearm. At first Sirius flinches and is about to look away, the memory of the Dark Mark burned on his brother's skin a scar in his mind, but instead there is only pale flesh—a clean slate to start over.

"What…?" Sirius begins, but he falters. Do scars no longer matter in death? "Was it gone when you arrived here or something?"

"It was gone before I even died," Regulus said, tracing a white finger across the white skin of his white arm. Sirius almost snorts with disbelief; as if Voldemort would brand his followers with a mark that was merely temporary.

"I'm sorry," Regulus finally breaks the silence.

The words that in life, Sirius has been dying to hear, _would have died to hear_, only embittered him in death.

"What are you apologizing for?" Sirius says harshly.

"Everything," Regulus says. "For my choices. For being a Death Eater. For betraying you."

Sirius thinks this is the perfect time to give a bark of derisive laughter, but he is not one to indulge in vindictive pleasure—his throat is too swollen to make enough sound.

"And you say this now?" he croaks. "You apologize now, because you realize you lost your damn life for it?"

And it hits him. The Regulus standing before him is only eighteen years old, just a child and dead. Sirius can see his reflection in Regulus's gray eyes and he sees that although the emancipated scars that Azkaban had carved in his flesh have gone, he is still more than a decade older than Regulus—he can still see in his own eyes the thirty-six years he endured in life, the weathered irises that do not belong with the rest of his body returned to youth. Regulus's eyes were still youthful, still not yet full with all that life could have given him—and yet they were no longer the eyes of a child. Something has changed in them, and Sirius only realizes even more how little he knows about his brother.

He is eighteen years old, a little _boy_, and he is dead.

"You were so _stupid_," Sirius says in a strangled voice.

"I know," Regulus says softly.

"You served a murderer, you served a monster that cared for no one, you served for injustice that is sickening, you sold yourself to evil!"

"I know." His voice is barely audible.

"And now that you're dead—" It is harder to speak for Sirius—his throat is swollen and his voice strained with regret. "—you realize you were wrong even though it's too late for you to even change your mind!"

"No."

That single word was like a blow to the chest. Sirius sucks in a deep breath as if he is about to submerge himself into deep, icy water. Regulus stares defiantly back, the familiar glint of innocent mischief sparking in his eyes.

(_It almost made him seem alive again._)

"What do you mean?" Sirius says, burning with both curiosity and dread.

"The timing is a little off," Regulus says simply, as if he is merely correcting Sirius on a Charms question rather than Regulus's life. "I knew it before I died. Quite a while beforehand."

At first Sirius thinks of accusing Regulus of lying—of beautifying the truth to win his favor—but perhaps there is a quality in death that—because death is so undeniable, inevitable, and honest—everyone in its embrace must be the same.

"I don't understand," says Sirius.

Regulus hesitates, the tip of his tongue grazing his lips in his own quirky way. "I realized the truth," he says, "and I died for it."

"How did you die?" Sirius demands. The words grate against his ears like rocks. "Were you dying to make the family happy? For the whole family to be proud of you, just as always?"

"Never," said Regulus. "Actually…the whole family probably would have called me a fool for the way I died."

"You were a fool in your lifetime as well," Sirius says acrimoniously.

"The whole family…except maybe one."

Sirius stops and turns toward Regulus again. He cannot believe how much of Regulus he has forgotten—the face, the voice, the utterly unbelievable youth he had given up—and especially the sharpness of his eyes, the way his stare seemed to speak volumes—in every language—just waiting for someone to understand.

"Who would've approved the fact that you died?" Sirius says, almost dryly. It's almost ironic how they talk of death while the soft glow of silver is pouring and they are—maybe—alive in such a way that they could move, breathe, speak, and let the light sink in.

"Who else would I want?" says Regulus. "You."

Sirius feels his breath catch in his throat. "I never wanted you to die."

Regulus's smile relaxes and now it is almost heartbreaking. "Thank you."

"Did you believe that before? That I wanted you to die?" Sirius laughs, and his laughter is strangled with unshed tears. "You're such an _idiot_, Regulus, if you thought that. A complete _fool_!"

And he doesn't realize how there are tears on his cheeks now, how his eyes burn and his throat burns and his face burns and how much it hurts _so damn much_ to remember how much they had lost. There were no more second chances—Sirius is thirty-six years old and twice Regulus's age when they are only supposed to be two years apart. Time has been lost—words, laughter, possibilities. They could have shared lives, families, universes together, and now all they could have together was death.

"You could have had everything," Sirius sobs. "You could have had a wife, or children, or family, or an adventure. You could have had the world."

And that world had taken his little brother.

He presses the heels of his hands against his streaming eyes. If he was still alive, he would be burning with shame for showing such weakness to Regulus of all people. He is the older brother. He ought to be stronger, tougher, braver to protect his little brother, and here he was, sobbing. Here he was, dead, lamenting his brother, dead for fifteen years.

"I lost you," Sirius says through gritted teeth that hurt his gums. "I lost you the moment I was sorted into Gryffindor, didn't I? I lost you and I never fought to get you back."

Could there have been anything that Sirius could have said that may have changed their tragedies? Perhaps one word, one lending hand, could have made the difference. But now is no time to revel or reminisce. All of that is over. All of those moments are gone.

"You know—" Regulus stops and starts again; his voice nearly gave up on him. "You know—all my life and even now—I wish I could have been a real brother to you." His hand trembles but his face is so calm (_so damn calm as if nothing bothers him, as if everything about him is a lie but it's not, you can't cheat death anymore_). And those words mean so much to Sirius that they almost seem to make no sense because he was so convinced that he would never hear them.

"You're always my brother," Sirius chokes out. "Even back then, when we couldn't face it. Even now."

If Sirius had looked away—just for a moment—he would have never seen that tear fall. But it is gone in a flash and Regulus faces him with bright eyes and an unbreakable smile—in death there is nothing to cause pain or break smiles anymore.

"But how did you die?" Sirius repeats. He doesn't want to hear, yet he _needs_ to know, as if his duties (_his privilege_) of being a brother are unfulfilled until he knows why his baby brother is dead.

Regulus gives Sirius a crooked smile—his once trademark grin that Sirius is shocked to realize that he has forgotten that quality of Regulus in life. How much of his brother does he really know? How much could he have learned if they were together for a little longer?

"I suppose it's embarrassing to say," Regulus says. "Father would have scornfully called it 'playing the hero' or something that melodramatic."

"Were you?"

"No, I doubt it," Regulus says good-naturedly. "I'm no Gryffindor."

Sirius has no idea how his baby brother died, or his last words or last hopes, but he is sure—he _knows—_that it does not matter whether Regulus is a Gryffindor or not. Something in him relaxes, as if letting out a sigh—a burden lifted and peace restored in him.

"Sounds like a hero to me, still," Sirius says.

Regulus gives him a look of surprise and then he relaxes. That smile on his face—that precious smile that holds no secrets or tears—makes Sirius feel like a real brother again.

"Let me tell you about it." Regulus says.

And the heavens wept the stars.


End file.
